


Making It Work

by angeoltaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddles, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Onesies, Pushing Daisies AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeoltaire/pseuds/angeoltaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Courferre Pushing Daisies AU requested by an anon on tumblr, with Ned!Combeferre and Chuck!Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making It Work

Combeferre honestly had no idea what he was thinking when he'd touched Courfeyrac.

Wait, no, scrap that; Combeferre _wasn't_ thinking when he'd touched Courfeyrac. He'd seen his best friend and childhood sweetheart lying there _dead_ and he...had to do it. He couldn't _not_ have done it, and, he decided, nobody could really blame him.

And now here he was, sat across the table from a very much alive Courfeyrac as the other man's murder was announced on the radio buzzing in the corner of the café.

“God, that sounds weird,” Courfeyrac murmured, stirring his coffee absently. “I just wanna run out into the street and scream 'Hi! Hello! Hey look, it's me, Monsieur de Courfeyrac! Hey, look! I'm not dead!'”

“Yeah, well,” Combeferre shrugged, allowing himself a small, fond smile. “You can't do that. It's, er, probably not a good idea. The world thinks your dead, so it's probably best to...stay dead.”

Courfeyrac sighed a little dramatically. “That's okay. At least I have you.” He reached across the table to take Combeferre's hand in his, his eyebrows drawing together and his bottom lip sticking out in a pout as Combeferre swiped his own hand back into his lap before Courfeyrac could get anywhere near it.

“Another thing,” Combeferre moaned, his heart twinging at the look of disappointment that had suddenly taken over Courfeyrac's usually soft and cheerful features. “We can't touch.”

Courfeyrac's lip fell out further as he pulled his own hand off of the table and sat cradling it within the other, as if he'd just touched hot iron.

“It's not that I don't want to!” Combeferre jumped immediately. “It's kind of the...rules of this thing. I touched you once and brought you back to life. I touch you again and you die again.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Courfeyrac huffed, throwing his hands up into the air exasperatedly. “The love of my life brought me back from the dead so that we could be together, and we can't even be together! Didn't Shakespeare write something like this once? I'm pretty sure he did. Two young lovers separated by the idea that a touch from one could kill the other. Oh, woe is me!”

“You certainly haven't changed,” Combeferre mumbled under his breath. “Still the same old drama queen.”

“I am not a drama queen!” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “This is a genuine tragedy, Combeferre.”

Slumping down in his seat, Combeferre let out a low whine. “I'm sorry, Courf. I wouldn't have done this if I'd have known it would piss you off this much. I just...couldn't let you be dead.”

“No, 'Ferre, I understand. And I'm really very grateful. I just...can't touch you? Man, that's gonna be hard.” He rested his chin in his hands, his lips pursed in a brief moment of thought. “It's okay. We'll compromise. We can touch so long as it's not skin-to-skin, right?” He waited for Combeferre to nod before continuing. “Okay. I can deal with that.”

“We'll find a way, Courf. I promise.”

\-------

A few days later, after days in the café consisting of the two of them dancing around each other and occasionally sharing a wink or a blown kiss, Combeferre was awoken by a frizzy-haired and wide eyed Courfeyrac. The other man held the tip of a wooden spoon between his fingers, and was prodding Combeferre's stomach with it.

“What d'you want, Courf?” Combeferre grumbled at the dull ache forming in his stomach, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “It's early.”

“I had an idea!” the other man squealed, bouncing up and down on his toes.

“An idea for what?”

“We said we'd make it work, and I had an idea how! Well, an idea how we can cuddle, at least.”

“I would say 'go on', but I have a feeling you're going to anyway.”

Courfeyrac gently whacked the top of Combeferre's head with the wooden spoon. “Don't be rude, you, I'm potentially saving our relationship. Anyway, here's my idea – onesies!”

Combeferre frowned deeply. “You have got to be kidding me. Are clothes not good enough anymore? Can't we just wear sweaters and gloves?”

“Well, we could. But onesies are cuter.”

“I am not wearing a onesie,” Combeferre said uncompromisingly, folding his arms across his chest.

“You are if you want to cuddle with me!” Courfeyrac crooned, skipping out to the kitchen. “I'll go and get them later. Right now we need to open up.”

“ _We_ don't need to do anything; it's _my_ café.”

“Shut up and get your arse out of bed, Combeferre. No 'but's.”

\-------

Courfeyrac kept to his word – he'd left two hours before closing time to “run a highly important errand” - and when Combeferre closed the café and returned to his bedroom, he found a folded onesie on his bed. He opened it up, holding it at arms length; it was his size, yes, but it was a ghastly zebra print that made his insides coil a little.

Suddenly Courfeyrac was in the doorway, dressed in his own gaudy leopard print onesie (and pulling it off rather well, Combeferre made a point of not mentioning). “Ta da!”

“Courfeyrac, this is terrible. There is no way I'm wearing that.”

“Don't be boring, Combeferre. Put it on! It's got cute little ears on the hood and everything. You'll look adorable.”

“Courfeyrac, I stopped wearing these things when I was six.”

“Do you want cute cuddles on the sofa without me dying, or not?”

“You're lucky that I love you so much,” Combeferre said drily. He began stripping off his shirt, ignoring the blush rising on his chest as he felt Courfeyrac's gaze fix intently on him. He then removed his jeans, and after that it took him a good few minutes to struggle into the onesie, his feet getting caught as he hurriedly attempted to step into the leg holes. Courfeyrac, meanwhile, stood leaning against the doorframe, smiling smugly and openly, and staring at Combeferre with wide eyes and dilated pupils.

“Another thing,” he started, walking over to where Combeferre was stood frowning down at his new outfit. In a matter of seconds Courfeyrac had unrolled a sheet of plastic wrap between them and his lips were on Combeferre's. At first Combeferre squeaked with surprise, but soon he was kissing Courfeyrac back eagerly, his now gloved hand reaching up to gently cup the other man's jaw. The kiss was as deep as the plastic would allow, and when they broke apart they gazed at each other through the steamed-up plastic, Courfeyrac biting back fond laughter. Combeferre took advantage of the plastic wrap to kiss the tip of Courfeyrac's nose, his stomach fluttering as Courfeyrac's nose scrunched up at the touch.

“We'll make this work,” Combeferre murmured against the plastic wrap.

“We're _definitely_ gonna make this work,” Courfeyrac giggled, and he kissed Combeferre again.

Curled up on the couch later, with Courfeyrac's hooded head in his lap, Combeferre had never felt more content. Their relationship wasn't ideal, no, but it was certainly enough to satisfy the both of them.

Courfeyrac admittedly made it very challenging for Combeferre to keep his hands to himself, what with his dumb face and his dumb hair and his dumb general cuteness. The thought of what it would feel like to kiss his soft lips or hold his hand firmly within his own kept Combeferre up at night, had him tossing and turning and dreaming of Courfeyrac's flesh against his.

And although it annoyed him, he really couldn't complain, because having Courfeyrac by his side again was the most wonderful thing in the world, even if the circumstances were somewhat inconvenient.

Courfeyrac could argue that Combeferre made it equally as difficult. Sometimes Combeferre's glasses would slide down his nose and it would take everything in Courfeyrac not to kiss him hard and push them back up. Other times Combeferre would look particularly sad or frustrated – over work, over Enjolras - and Courfeyrac was just dying to take him in his arms and kiss him and hug him and reassure him that everything would be okay.

But he couldn't. They couldn't touch in any conventional way – no skin-to-skin contact – and as annoying as that was, they made do. If it meant wearing gloves in the summer and keeping a roll of plastic wrap close by, then that's what they'd do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments and general feedback are always much appreciated :D
> 
> I take fic requests over on my [tumblr](http://angeoltaire.tumblr.com), so if you have any requests then feel free to drop them by my askbox.


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